“A Darite Boy. Thorn Cottage”

Heading back from Down Hill Farm towards Darite, and almost opposite the top of our lane is a small triangular shaped field. During the spring and summer clover grew pea green and succulent, blanketing the whole field.

Returning from school one afternoon I noticed Bill G and another man standing by a South Devon Heifer (A young female cow before she has had her first calf.)

The Heifer had somehow strayed into the field, and grazed for some considerable time on the clover. The young cow sounded distressed and in pain, so going into the field I stood by Bill G, who explained to me that the cow had eaten too much clover, and this had caused methane gas to build up in her stomach, which by now had swollen so much that he was afraid she would die.

At this time the other man was running his hand over the top of the cow’s stomach feeling for the blockage. Then taking a penknife from his pocket he quickly plunged the blade into the cow’s side, and a jet of gas spurted from the wound for about ten to fifteen seconds. The deflation of the cow’s stomach was almost instant, and the relief to the cow was obvious.

I found it hard to take in what I had just witnessed at the age of ten. The sticking of a knife into the young cow shocked me, however there was very little blood coming from the wound and the Heifer having been ushered back up the road to Down Hill Farm where the wound was dressed appeared unperturbed. So it was time to head home for tea.

Heading down the lane, the grey granite chippings felt loose underfoot. The rubble washed clean by the past winter rains, glinted in the afternoon sun. Early spring Snowdrops had long died away in the south facing hedgerow to be replaced by soft pastel colours. Yellow Primrose, Pink Campion, Purple Foxgloves, Thistles, Wild Roses, Stinging Nettle’s, Wild Carrot, the list is endless.

White blossom sprouting from the Thorn Trees around Thorn cottage scented the air. Five hundred yards along the top railway line past Thorn Cottage a wild Damson tree was also starting to bloom.

Further down the lane by the gate to our house, a Lilac tree grew from which Mother said I was never to pick blossom nor was I to bring Lilac Flowers into the house for fear Adders would follow the blossom in.

Back in the garden, behind the Lilac tree, grew two very old fruit trees, a Conference Pear, and an early Laxton Plum.

Late in the summer months Mother would send me to pick Damsons from the wild Damson tree, or Father would pick Plums from the garden tree, and we would have Damson or Plum pie laden with clotted cream at teatime.

Being as thrifty as she was, Mother would have Father Harvest some of the Pears just before they ripened. These he’d wrap in tissue paper and store away in old tomato box’s, to slowly ripen in a dark corner of the outbuilding, and we’d eat them around Christmas time.

Surplus Damsons or Plums were rendered into jams and stored on a cold shelf above the spring well.

The summer months were busy times for Father what with his day job at the quarry and evenings in the garden, or paddocks.

During the weekends he’d be out helping local farmers with the Hay or Corn Harvesting. On rare occasions he’d allow me to go with him to help out, ‘though I was probably more of a hindrance then of help’

On one occasion, aged about ten, I was helping the men to get Barley in from a field belonging to Mr & Mrs Searle on West Darite Farm. The steam engine had been linked up to the thrashing machine and had worked well all morning.

About lunchtime I decided it was time to eat one or two of the sandwiches mother had given me, also drink some cold tea from the bottle I had taken with me, so I sat on some ground between the steam engine and the thrashing box.

The twenty foot long canvas belt fitted to pulleys of the engine and thrashing box was moving at high speed when suddenly I heard a shout. I felt a hard whack and a burning sensation to my head. The blow knocked me sideways and onto my back, once I had regained my senses I was told the belt had snapped, and whipping through the air one end had struck me on the top of my skull, ripping a tuft of hair from my head, I felt as if I had been scalped.

Father, concerned as he was, gave me an apple to eat and made me promise not to tell Mother.

Until this time helping the men had been fun, working with the gentle shire horses thrilled me, and the scent of new mown hay was a pleasure to the senses.  Now I had suddenly been taught a lesson, that messing about around machinery on a farm was fraught with danger.

Three things came to pass during the approach of autumn which was about to affect my life for many years.

1.    Our new landlord Mr. S had taken up small-hold farming with gusto and had invested in a second hand Ransom Crawler Tractor.

2.    Thorn cottage had been sold and a new couple had taken up residence

3.    My headmaster Bill Pearce retired from teaching, and a new head Tom.D replaced him.

The local farmers were in awe, and wondered just why Mr. S had purchased the Ransom crawler, “It was nothing more than a toy” they said “And of no practical use whatsoever ”

Mr S, oblivious to the local gossip, rode through the surrounding villages for days. Someone said unkindly “He reminds me of Toad of Toad Hall in Wind in the Willows”

After awhile the gossip died down, and Mr S was left to have a go at farming.

The moment our new headmaster Tom D introduced himself to the school I just knew I’d like him, quietly spoken, with an air of calmness he had the ability to instil confidence in the school children.  I found it was such a relief not to be bullied by Bill Pearce for being left-handed, and now became eager to attend my classes.

At this time I could barely read or write, and I can only thank Tom D for changing my attitude to books and reading!

One morning Mother said “On the way to school and when you return, call in at Thorn Cottage and see if the lady there needs anything doing”

It was about eight thirty in the morning when I knocked at the open front door of Thorn cottage; and heard a female say “I’m in the bedroom please come on up” Wondering why I was being invited by a complete stranger into her bedroom, I gingerly climbed the stairs.

On entering the bedroom a young lady of about twenty six years of age lay, with her jet black shimmering hair spread across a white starched pillow, upon which she rested her head, the hair cocooning a beautiful parchment white face.

This was my first introduction to Pauline D.

She thanked me for calling in, and asked if on my way home from school I would call in at the Darite Village Coop stores (at that time run by Mr & Mrs Gill) and buy a few things for her.

Every morning for the following three months I’d call in, make Pauline a cup of coffee and take it to her in the bedroom, where sitting by the bed on a chair I’d chat and update her on local news, then off for ’schooling’ I’d go. After school I’d bring back to her any shopping she needed.

One morning mother told me not to call in at Pauline’s again. I thought maybe I had done something wrong and asked why? Mother told me Pauline had died of cancer during the previous night.

With an intense feeling of anger and utter sadness, I went out onto the garden and cried. At the age of ten I could not understand how someone so young and lovely could die.

There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was–and then no more of Thee and Me.

That Christmas Mother and father bought me my first book ‘Pinocchio‘

To be cont: